


The Road Not Taken

by torino10154



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Anal Sex, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:38:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2418779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torino10154/pseuds/torino10154
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He doesn't turn toward the pillow beside him; he knows there's no one there. Snape hasn't ever stayed the night and Harry can't really blame him.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road Not Taken

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Alisanne, SDK, Writcraft, and Badgerlady for their help with the fic.

Sunlight peeks through the heavy curtains where they don't quite meet in the middle, and Harry blinks and throws an arm over his eyes.

It takes him a moment to remember where he is. His body remembers before his mind does; he's relaxed but aching in all the right places.

He doesn't turn toward the pillow beside him; he knows there's no one there. Snape hasn't ever stayed the night and Harry can't really blame him.

Most lorry drivers don't take kindly to queers.

Harry swings his legs out of bed, stands and stretches, before jumping in the shower. He's got a long day ahead of him if he's going to make it up to Newcastle and then down to London before tea.

He steps into the tepid water—management are bloody cheapskates—and washes away whatever remains from the night before.

As Harry towel-dries his hair, he debates whether he should have breakfast at the truck stop. He doesn't usually, not after he and Snape fucked the first time. He's not a coward but he's not sure how Snape will treat him in the cold light of day.

Harry snorts. More like the harsh fluorescent light of the restaurant.

~~~~~

Harry always arrives at night, slips onto a stool at the counter, and says hello to the regulars.

There's a hulk of a man named Hagrid. Harry has no idea how he even fits in the cab but he's friendly and, if he were to bleach his beard white, he'd make a perfect Father Christmas. There's an older man, Moody, who always sits facing the door like he's expecting someone to jump him. And maybe he is, by the rough look of him. Harry wonders if it's legal for him to drive as he's definitely got something the matter with his eye, but if he has his license, it must be good enough. 

There's one pretty bird he sees regularly—there still aren't that many women driving lorries, even now—who he's sure wants to shag him, but she's not his type. 

He's got his eyes on the swinging door to the kitchen and the man he expects to step through at any moment.

"Watcha' hauling, 'arry?" Hagrid asks. 

"Coals to Newcastle," he says dryly.

Hagrid guffaws and claps him on the shoulder, nearly knocking him off the stool.

He lifts the plastic menu, pretending to peruse his options. Thing is, now that he's had it, he only ever orders the steak and kidney pie. It's nothing fancy but it always hits the spot. Kind of like...

"The usual?" a deep voice asks and Harry lowers his menu and smiles so wide it almost hurts his cheeks. Black eyes sparkle in recognition but that's the only sign Harry gets that Snape is glad to see him.

"And a pint, please." 

Harry watches as Snape walks through the door into the kitchen. He's scrawny and lean, nothing to write home about, and yet, Harry lives for the days he has to pick up a container in Portsmouth. 

Lives for the nights he spends making the bedsprings squeak in a twenty-quid-a-night room, not sleeping in the back of his cab. 

Sometimes he's down here twice a week; other times he's lucky if it's twice in a month. Not long ago he spent a fortnight driving from Edinburgh to Cornwall and back again. That got bloody boring after three days.

A plate and a glass are soon in front of him and Harry eats slowly, savouring both the taste and the fact that for once he's not in a rush. So many days are defined by eating as fast as he can or, worse, eating while he drives. Antacids are a driver's best mate. 

He surreptitiously watches Snape move, serving the other lorry drivers, rarely saying more than two words to anyone. Harry recognises his facial expressions, though. Irritated. Exasperated. "You are a dunderhead."

Though he can hear Snape's voice carry from the kitchen more than once and he's glad it's not his job to follow Snape's precise direction. He's more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants sort of bloke. It's why driving suits him. If he gets from point A to point B, he's done his job.

When Harry pushes his plate away, Hagrid says, "Up for a card game?"

Harry shakes his head. "It's been a long day and I've got an early morning. I'm for bed."

Snape walks by and raises one eyebrow, and Harry has to fight the blush that's threatening. 

"Good to see you, Harry," Hagrid says, digging into what appears to be an entire roasted chicken and a pound of potatoes.

"You, too." 

Harry heads to his room, where he pulls off his boots and turns on the telly, then flops onto the bed.

He knows Snape will find him. He always does. 

Harry's eyes snap open when he hears the soft knock on the door and jumps up to answer it.

Snape slips inside and Harry shuts the door behind him.

Snape's showered away the grease of the kitchen, his still damp hair hanging loose. He now smells of soap and cigarettes instead of fish and chips. 

Harry stands for a moment, watching as Snape shrugs out of his shirt and drapes it over the single chair in the room. Snape reaches for the zip of his jeans and looks up—heat flaring in his eyes—and Harry finally moves. 

He tugs his shirt over his head and pushes his jeans and pants down to his ankles, stepping out of them and leaving them crumpled on the floor. Snape is laying his jeans across the arm of the chair as Harry pulls off his socks, his cock already half-hard in anticipation.

Harry climbs onto the bed and strokes himself as he watches Snape finish undressing. 

Snape runs his hands through his hair, smoothing it down, then turns toward Harry. 

The first time they'd ended up in bed together, Harry'd barely made it to the truck stop before the kitchen closed for the night. Somehow, after one too many pints of ale, Harry'd come on to Snape and, instead of getting punched in the jaw, he'd got a fat cock up his arse. 

Snape approaches the bed and Harry spreads his thighs. Harry groans softly as their cocks align, hot and hard against each other. Harry grabs Snape's arse and pulls him closer, rolling his hips up to meet each of Snape's thrusts. 

Harry watches Snape's hair swinging as he moves, admires the wiry muscles of his arms as they hold his body above Harry's. There's a small tattoo of a bee on his upper right bicep as well as a garish green skull on the inside of his left forearm. 

He doesn't ask what they mean or when Snape got them. Snape repays the favour and never asks about the burn mark on his chest or the scars on the back of his hand. 

Snape stops rocking against him and slithers down his body. Harry's fingers tangle in Snape's thick hair, arching up into the wet warmth of Snape's mouth. 

"Fuck, Snape," Harry whispers, his bollocks aching for release. The tip of Snape's finger presses to his hole and Harry can't hold back, coming hard down Snape's throat. 

Harry lies panting as Snape gets a tube of lube from his pocket. He strokes some onto his cock and Harry starts to roll over to get on his hands and knees but Snape shakes his head and grips his hip to keep him from turning.

They've never fucked face to face before.

Harry instead pulls a pillow from behind his head and shoves it beneath himself to get the angle better. When he pulls his legs back, he sees Snape swallow as his cock throbs.

Snape squeezes some of the lube onto his fingers and breaches Harry's hole. Harry relaxes as Snape stretches him and it isn't long before he's fully hard again.

"Enough." 

Snape pulls his fingers free and lines himself up, the head pushing through the first ring of muscle. 

Harry's unable to look away from Snape's face now that he has the chance to see it. He's concentrating, determined, and trying not to come. 

No matter how many times Harry's had the pleasure to fuck him, it's always a challenge not to spend himself the moment he's within that tight heat. He's heard that once he's Snape's age—whatever that might be; older than Harry anyway—he won't feel like coming instantly, but he doesn't believe it. It feels too damn good and, from the look on Snape's face, he feels the same way. 

Snape looks at him then and thrusts hard. Harry clenches around Snape, drawing a gasp, which in turn, makes Harry grin.

"A challenge, then," Snape says, black eyes flashing. Harry doesn't look away, doesn't close his eyes. They're locked on Snape's as he fucks him, harder and harder. 

Harry loses himself in the intensity of Snape's gaze, as if they are the only two people in the world. He's flying, his body singing with pleasure.

Snape's sweating, grunting, and thrusting all while it seems as if he's boring into Harry's soul, seeing the darkest corners of Harry's mind. 

Harry wants to kiss him.

Snape moves faster, his thrusts long and deep.

"Come for me, Harry," Snape says, voice husky and low. 

Harry's astonished to hear his first name—he's not sure he ever told Snape what it was—but he doesn't hesitate to reach between them and take his cock in hand.

Stroking himself feverishly, Harry arches and cries out, come spilling out over his fist and onto his stomach. Snape roars his completion, his cock pulsing inside Harry's arse. He nearly collapses on top of Harry. 

Harry presses a kiss to his shoulder. 

Snape shifts and pulls out slowly, rolling to the side, his breathing evening out as he recovers. 

Harry closes his eyes.

~~~~~

When, in the morning, he retrieves his crumpled jeans from the floor, he wishes he'd picked them up last night. He throws them on the bed and tries to smooth them out a bit before digging in his bag for fresh pants, socks, and an undershirt.

He doesn't dwell on the idea that Snape might entertain other drivers when Harry's away. That he's just one of many.

Men have needs. He knows blokes who fuck a different bird every night. 

Tucking himself into his pants, Harry thinks that his right hand is a lot less trouble. 

Once he's got his jeans and shirt on, Harry sits down on the edge of the bed to pull on his socks and boots. After he pulls the laces tight, Harry stands and gathers his things then heads out to his lorry. 

He's tempted to go inside for breakfast as he's heard they do a brilliant full English. He doesn't know what he'd say. Not that he and Snape do a lot of talking. But when they see each other, they always end up in bed. 

Harry grins. He wouldn't mind if that was the case this time as well. He knows it can't happen though, more's the pity.

He shakes his head, no. Not this time. He'll get something to eat once he gets closer to Birmingham. 

He watches two men head inside, their voices carrying loudly across the car park. They'll quiet right down once Snape gives them the eye, Harry's certain of that.

The sun has gone behind the clouds which will make his drive easier. English drivers never seem to know what to do with themselves when the sun makes an appearance. 

Harry climbs into his cab to get his checklist and, after making sure everything's ready to go, he pulls out of the car park and heads north. 

Harry looks into the wing mirror and watches the truck stop disappear in the distance.

"Until next time."

**Author's Note:**

> [Portsmouth Truckstop and Lorry Park](http://www.portsmouthtruckstop.co.uk/index.html)  
> [The Road Not Taken](http://www.sparknotes.com/poetry/frost/section7.rhtml) by Robert Frost


End file.
